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Why choose buttons?

Published: Sunday, September 22, 2013 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Wednesday, September 18, 2013 at 9:52 p.m.

In May, I was fortunate enough to experience a writer's ultimate goal — the publication of my first book, “The Button Collector,” a novel in stories based on a jar of discarded buttons.

People often ask me why I chose buttons, and the truth is that I used them as a purely literary device. I've always loved the concept of little bits of story coming together to create an intricate whole, much like tiles in a mosaic or threads in a tapestry. I had considered other devices, including items in a junk drawer, but I liked the way buttons are both intimate and unique.

At the time, I knew buttons appealed to me, but I had no idea just how many other people loved them. Moreover, I had no idea how these common little objects could inspire truly incredible creations. Over the years I've come across a vast array of button crafters, button artists and button jewelers, as well as quite a few people who simply defy category.

For starters, there's The Button King near Bishopville, S.C. The king's real name is Dalton Stevens, and in 1983 he began putting buttons on things because he couldn't sleep at night. He started by covering a denim suit with more than 16,000 buttons. Since then he's covered two coffins, a piano, a hearse and an outhouse. He now runs a museum and has been featured on CNN and interviewed by David Letterman and Charles Kuralt.

Why buttons? I haven't seen an explanation but I like this statement on his website (www.scbuttonking.com): “I believe I've been blessed in life to be able to do something that seems meant to be.”

Closer to home is Celia Barbieri, The Button Florist, whose studio is in Asheville's River Arts District. Barbieri has been making and selling button flowers since high school. Today she combines vintage buttons with ceramic buttons she sculpts herself to create bouquets, single flowers, wedding cake toppers and more. Her sweetly offbeat style has attracted customers throughout the country and her Facebook page has almost a thousand fans.

Barbieri traces her craft back to when she was a child who could recognize the beauty in overlooked objects. “I was always noticing little treasures that other people discarded,” she explained. “Today I use some of these things to form my ceramic buttons and I always wonder who owned them and what their story is.”

I believe Barbieri has touched on the essence of why people often respond so viscerally to buttons: Buttons are personal and tangible items that someone has worn close to his or her body. In my mind they are not unlike a talisman or a ring, a small thing signifying something much larger.

Nowhere is this more evident than in a project I stumbled upon during the past few months: The Peoria Holocaust Memorial Button Project in Illinois. The memorial is made of glass stars and triangles encasing 11 million buttons, one for each person murdered in the Holocaust. The idea is similar to a popular middle school exercise in which students collect paper clips to represent people killed in the Holocaust. While paper clips work well to show the scale of atrocity, I believe buttons give the memorial added depth because they remind us of our own clothing, our own details, our own humanity. I also like the fact that people donated their buttons for the project.

The website for the memorial offers this commentary: “Each button is unique — like each person. Buttons hold things together, an analogy to each individual who helped hold together their family, their community, and their society.” (www.peoriaholocaustmemorial.com)

These examples are just brief glimpses of the many button wonders I've discovered, and I have no doubt that I'll find even more in the coming months. As the Peoria memorial points out, buttons are enduring. They outlast fads, clothing, people. They will continue to offer personal reminders of a past that we can pick up and experience for ourselves.

Freelance writer Elizabeth Jennings lives in the Rugby area of Henderson County and is the author of "The Button Collector," a novel in stories.

<p>In May, I was fortunate enough to experience a writer's ultimate goal — the publication of my first book, “The Button Collector,” a novel in stories based on a jar of discarded buttons.</p><p>People often ask me why I chose buttons, and the truth is that I used them as a purely literary device. I've always loved the concept of little bits of story coming together to create an intricate whole, much like tiles in a mosaic or threads in a tapestry. I had considered other devices, including items in a junk drawer, but I liked the way buttons are both intimate and unique.</p><p>At the time, I knew buttons appealed to me, but I had no idea just how many other people loved them. Moreover, I had no idea how these common little objects could inspire truly incredible creations. Over the years I've come across a vast array of button crafters, button artists and button jewelers, as well as quite a few people who simply defy category.</p><p>For starters, there's The Button King near Bishopville, S.C. The king's real name is Dalton Stevens, and in 1983 he began putting buttons on things because he couldn't sleep at night. He started by covering a denim suit with more than 16,000 buttons. Since then he's covered two coffins, a piano, a hearse and an outhouse. He now runs a museum and has been featured on CNN and interviewed by David Letterman and Charles Kuralt.</p><p>Why buttons? I haven't seen an explanation but I like this statement on his website (www.scbuttonking.com): “I believe I've been blessed in life to be able to do something that seems meant to be.”</p><p>Closer to home is Celia Barbieri, The Button Florist, whose studio is in Asheville's River Arts District. Barbieri has been making and selling button flowers since high school. Today she combines vintage buttons with ceramic buttons she sculpts herself to create bouquets, single flowers, wedding cake toppers and more. Her sweetly offbeat style has attracted customers throughout the country and her Facebook page has almost a thousand fans.</p><p>Barbieri traces her craft back to when she was a child who could recognize the beauty in overlooked objects. “I was always noticing little treasures that other people discarded,” she explained. “Today I use some of these things to form my ceramic buttons and I always wonder who owned them and what their story is.”</p><p>I believe Barbieri has touched on the essence of why people often respond so viscerally to buttons: Buttons are personal and tangible items that someone has worn close to his or her body. In my mind they are not unlike a talisman or a ring, a small thing signifying something much larger.</p><p>Nowhere is this more evident than in a project I stumbled upon during the past few months: The Peoria Holocaust Memorial Button Project in Illinois. The memorial is made of glass stars and triangles encasing 11 million buttons, one for each person murdered in the Holocaust. The idea is similar to a popular middle school exercise in which students collect paper clips to represent people killed in the Holocaust. While paper clips work well to show the scale of atrocity, I believe buttons give the memorial added depth because they remind us of our own clothing, our own details, our own humanity. I also like the fact that people donated their buttons for the project.</p><p>The website for the memorial offers this commentary: “Each button is unique — like each person. Buttons hold things together, an analogy to each individual who helped hold together their family, their community, and their society.” (www.peoriaholocaustmemorial.com)</p><p>These examples are just brief glimpses of the many button wonders I've discovered, and I have no doubt that I'll find even more in the coming months. As the Peoria memorial points out, buttons are enduring. They outlast fads, clothing, people. They will continue to offer personal reminders of a past that we can pick up and experience for ourselves.</p><p><i>Freelance writer Elizabeth Jennings lives in the Rugby area of Henderson County and is the author of "The Button Collector," a novel in stories.</p>